


September 1993

by AbbyBanks



Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbbyBanks/pseuds/AbbyBanks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>"In September 1993, you faced down three escaped murderers. You brought them to justice. Your third citation."</cite>  Due South, 'Eclipse'</p>
            </blockquote>





	September 1993

**Author's Note:**

> Written for DS_Flashfic's insults challenge [here](http://community.livejournal.com/ds_flashfiction/648903.html)

Ray knows he has a lot going for him, as a cop. His instincts are impeccable; his hunches are worth two of anyone else’s. He has two official citations for bravery to his name plus, he was the cop on the spot a couple of years ago for the Botrelle arrest. He’s so popular that Sam couldn’t get him transferred out to the twenty-third fast enough. They in turn love him so much that they fell over themselves to loan him to this cross-departmental task force.

Hunches and instincts do not make for airtight prosecutions or timely paperwork, and good PR goes cold fast.

*

The bag barely moves as his fist makes contact, it’s like hitting a brick wall, which is about right. _Symbolic_, he thinks. He stops for a moment, catching his breath, hugging the bag. He’s been doing this for hours, but he feels no better now than when he got here, a speechless, antagonized whirlwind of rage and frustration.

_“Fools follow rules when the set commands you,” _shouts the radio in the corner.

He lands a good, solid punch, and another, harder still. Ray’s imagination has always been vivid - just ask his grade school teachers - and now it presents him with clear images of their faces as his fist makes contact with the bag; Drew, then Smith, then Greene. Drew, who they know held Detective Griffiths down; Smith, who shot him in the kneecaps when he tried to run; Greene, who fired again and again into his gut, then, at the very end, pressed it to his temple and...

Ray threw the gloves off some time back, so now, against the gym’s soundscape of sparring, muffled voices and music, the impacts of his wrapped fists against the bag punctuate his thoughts. A swift _left_, a hard _right_. The _three_ of them, all on the _run_, but still in Chicago somewhere, somewhere _Ray_ should be able to work _out_, he’s meant to be a de_tec_tive, he’s a _good_ detective, _why_ can’t he make _this_ one? Because he had been awake too many _hours,_ he was called on it by the _Lieu_, taken off it and told to go _home_ to the _wife_, like she’d even fucking _be_ there.

The Lieu said he had done good work and he should go home and get some sleep. Like that wasn’t a total fucking insult, ‘get some sleep, detective,’ were the words; underneath them, ‘leave it to the experts’ was what he heard. Which leaves him here in the gym, taking it out on sand and leather instead of sleeping, because who could fucking sleep now? He’s ready to detonate, fuming at himself for not insisting that he join the convoy back to the station after the arrest; furious at the passing driver who stopped instead of speeding off, who let them take his van as a getaway vehicle and who is now lying cold in the drawer next to Griff’s.

_“I give a shout out to the living dead,_” comments the radio.

He batters the bag, welcoming the ache in his chest and arms and back, the bruises forming on his swollen knuckles, even the bloody smears he’s starting to leave behind. The acid building up in his muscles burns, white spots form in the corners of his vision, swimming, growing, merging into one.

The gym falls out of focus.

The sound of his own breathing echoes in his ears; the rushing noise of his blood deepens. He watches his fist slow as it approaches the bag. The music growls to a halt, “_They... say... jump. You. Say.”_

Silence.

The moment breaks on the points of his knuckles; shatters like a mirror, like a champagne glass, into a thousand splinters of memory.

Time.

Stops.

Slivers of seconds hang suspended about him, each one containing a fragment, a memory, a single thought from the last few days. In the not-space where he waits, tucked in between the last instant and the next, there is no movement, no action, no consciousness, just a collage of the mind’s eye:

Greene’s wife biting back the words / A shoe with a broken heel / Drew’s brother burning an envelope / A second photo of Smith outside the bank / “We saw that film last week” / No wedding rings / Stopping at the green light / A new bank account / He dropped the sunglasses right in front of Ray / The record sleeve / A van parked across the road / The ferry ticket on the notice board.

Only fragments, but...

_“...how high, just victims of the in-house drive by!” _blurts the radio, triumphantly, and Ray sees the whole picture, he instantly knows exactly where they are, knows also that there’s not a minute to spare. He has to get there, to the cousin’s house (_so obvious,_ he thinks) that they searched first of all, the day Griff died. He runs for the car.

There’s no time to lose.

*

Afterwards, the paramedics strap up the gouge in his arm while a bunch of uniforms drag the three men away. The Lieu - not his own lieutenant, but the guy running the task force - comes over and gives him an earful about going in with no vest, with no backup, without even a spare clip, “a misguided attempt to spare the department’s small arms budget, perhaps, detective?”. And how did he know where to find them, anyway?

Ray, embarrassed, shrugs awkwardly. Mutters something about a hunch. The Lieu says nothing else but two weeks later Ray finds himself with a the offer of a job with Narcotics, undercover, if he wants it. Shortly after follows his third official award for bravery.

He reads the accompanying citation, one paragraph in particular:

_“Detective Kowalski’s actions were unquestionably the deciding factor which led to the arrest of three dangerous felons, with minimal bloodshed and no further loss of life. I would not hesitate to recruit him for any assignment where intelligence and quick thinking were required.”_

It’s counter-signed by that same lieutenant, H-something-illegible Welsh. Ray makes a mental note to remember the name.

You never know when you'll need someone to give you a break.

**Author's Note:**

> Rage Against The Machine's _Bullet In The Head_ is playing in the gym.


End file.
